Page 10 of The Other Half

“Good! Another beautiful summer day, eh?”

“It is,” I answered, still taken aback by this friendly stranger.

“That will be $22.46.”

Pleased I’d stayed under budget the first time in my life I had a budget, I handed her my one hundred-dollar bill. When she passed back the change, I felt a swell of panic surge inside me. Staring at the meager money in my trembling hand, my stomach flipped over. These bills and this change represented survival. Swallowing hard, I looked up at her.

“Do you know anywhere hiring?”

With a snort, she nodded. “Everywhere is hiring. It’s tourist season. We have more jobs than employees!”

Letting out an external sigh I shoved the money back in my purse. “Do you know where I can look?”

She pointed toward the door. “There’s a corkboard over there with jobs. Take a look. Have a wonderful day!”

“Thank you,” I answered, then pushed my cart over to the board nailed to the wall. Dozens of flyers with the words “Hiring” were stuck on with thumb tacks. I perused over them all. Server Wanted, Hostess Wanted, Busser Wanted... the jobs seemed endless. And then I realized that even with my Columbia MBA, I had absolutely no freaking experience for any of them. Panic crept up inside me while my eyes flipped through them, discounting each one because I hadn’t even the faintest idea how to do the job. Then I saw that big blue cartoon bull caricature at the top of the bottom flyer on the right. I knew that bull. It was the same one on that western-looking building I passed near my house in Baileys Harbor.

Bartender Wanted at the Blue Ox. Great money. Great people. No experience necessary. Will train.

No experience necessary! That was me! And even though I had no experience as a bartender, I had a lot of experience at bars. I drank at them, danced on them, and had ordered countless drinks at them. As embarrassed as I was to admit it, my limited skillset made the job as a bartender the most logical choice. And it was close to home. Considering my gas was dwindling down, the job’s proximity to my cabin would help with this newfound need to budget my money.

I scooped Poppy and my grocery bag out of the cart and pushed it back into the return rack. With a skip in my step I returned to my car and fired it up before chugging back to Baileys Harbor to the Blue Ox to apply for a job.

After sitting in my car parked out front for a few moments, I tried to muster up the courage to walk inside. How does one apply for a job? Should I have a resume or something? Just walk inside? This lack of confidence that plagued me every second of my new life here unsettled me. Normally, I was confident and brave. But everything here was new and with no one to guide me I felt lost and overwhelmed. The truth of my grandpa’s words settled over me again. I really did have zero life skills. With one look into my purse at the only crumpled up bills I had to avoid starvation, I decided to march inside and ask about a job.

Leaving Poppy sleeping on my sweater, I climbed out and scooted through the cars across the street. When I arrived at the front of the building, I paused on the giant blue shoe prints painted on the sidewalk leading to the building. The big blue bull looked down at me between the words “Blue Ox” and I looked across the rickety porch where two chairs and a wooden bench and a table sat. It looked more like the type of porch where I’d see people sitting out blowing on jugs than the porch of a bar in a tourist town. Antique signs covered the door and neon lights flashed from the windows. “Go Pack Go” glowed yellow just below the Miller Lite sign. This was no New York City club, and I started to lose my gumption.

The door swung open and a normal looking couple stepped out. They weren’t wearing overalls and chewing on straw like I now imagined I’d find inside but looked like a couple of regular people. The woman, wearing a big grin and an oversized summer hat, stepped out while the man in khakis and a button-down held open the door.

“Coming in?” he asked while he continued holding the door.

Nodding my head, I bit my lip and started up the steps. “Yes, thank you.”

He waited until I stepped inside before letting go of the door. It slammed behind me and I jumped at the sound. Frozen in place, I stood with wide eyes while I tried to take in the overwhelming atmosphere. Only two patrons sat on the round bar stools lined up along the rough wooden bar. Antique decorations and signs covered every inch of the plank wood walls. They hung over my head, and I looked up at the giant American flag suspended above me. It was surprising this old building hadn’t collapsed under the weight of the countless trinkets clinging to every inch of it.

When I looked to my right, I saw a man in a black fedora hat slumped back in a chair in front of the window. One look at his distorted face and the scream started gurgling up in my throat, but it stopped when I realized it wasn’t a real man. It was a life-sized mannequin of sorts, and he sat unmoving beside me.

“It’s Captain Bailey. Don’t let him scare you,” a woman’s voice called, and I spun to the sound. A cute little brunette in jeans and a tight tank top with the words “I Got Oxidized at the Blue Ox” across her chest stood behind the bar wiping a glass. She stared at me while I remained frozen like my feet were glued to the brown carpet. “Can I help you?”

With a long gulp sliding down my throat, I nodded my head. “Yes. Hi. I, uh, I’m looking for a job. I think.” I managed to say while I forced my feet to move toward her.

“You think?”

I shook my head. “No. I am. I am looking for a job.” It was the first time in my life I’d uttered those words.

“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to a barber chair at the end of the bar.

What the hell is this? I thought while I tried to climb in it. After shifting around to get as comfortable as I could in the odd chair, she came up and leaned forward on the bar. Chocolate colored eyes the same color as her hair raked me up and down.

“I’m Jo,” she said, sticking out her hand. Even though she wore little makeup and her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, she was as beautiful as the women I normally rolled with in the city. With some makeup, high heels, and a cocktail gown she could have fit right in with us.

“Cass—” I stopped myself. I couldn’t use my real name. Even though these people didn’t read New York papers, my name had gone national on more than one occasion. Remembering Grandpa’s warning I couldn’t use my name or risk losing the company, I pulled one out from thin air. “Cassie Sinclair,” I spit out without thought. Saying the name sent a familiar wave of grief surging inside me and I immediately regretted not choosing something that wouldn’t remind me of my parents every time I said it. My father used to call me Cassie when I was young, before I grew up and demanded everyone call me Cassandra because it sounded more elegant. Visions of him saying the name while I curled up in his lap and got a kiss on the head flooded me with sorrow. And Sinclair was my mother’s maiden name. Struggling to keep from dissolving into a puddle of tears, I swallowed them down while I reached out and shook her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Cassie. So, you’ve bartended?”

I thought there was no experience necessary? “Um, yes,” I lied. Though was it really a lie? Pouring shots into people’s mouths while standing on the bar and spraying them with champagne counts as bartending, right?

“Good. We’re desperate. I’m working doubles every day trying to keep up and Friday and Saturday nights I’m here by myself and I could use a second. Tips are great. We’ve got lots of locals and they’re pretty easy. How often are you available?”